


On the Job

by nsyncgrrl



Category: Music RPF, NSYNC, Pop Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsyncgrrl/pseuds/nsyncgrrl
Summary: Three years at a cable company prompted this story. They say write what you know, so I did. Lance is the service tech who goes to install cable at Justin's home.
Relationships: Lance Bass/Justin Timberlake
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	On the Job

"Base to 23." Britney's voice crackles over the radio. I have it turned down low but she's still a little too loud -- I think she yells into the radio on purpose. Usually she gets pissed at a customer and takes it out on us. By the tone of her voice now, I know I'm in for a real treat.

I reach over and turn the radio up. "Go ahead," I say, waiting. I'm a service tech, which means trouble calls and cut drops and little old ladies who can't figure out how to program their TVs, but sometimes I get a reconnect/leave tag or an emergency mark lines, depending on what needs to be done. It's after noon already and I have only one more order left for the day, a PM job where the customer wants me to come after 3:30, so I know Britney has something that's come up. I can take another few jobs until I have to head out to this one on Walnut Street. When she doesn't reply right away, I repeat myself. "23. Go ahead, Base."

"Lance," she came back, a burst of static accompanying my name, "I have a new install I need you to pick up. Can you copy?"

 _Damn._ I ain't an installer, and I already know I don't have half the tools needed to complete the job. "Um, Base," I say, frowning at the road as I drive, "I don't have any converters on my truck. Is this a basic only install?"

"Negative. But it's per Bob. He says you can do it. Just tell the customer to pick up a box at the office." _Per Bob._ That means the customer has been a real ass and somehow managed to talk to the supervisor, bitching about something or other, and I'm in for it when I show up at the door. There goes the rest of my afternoon. "Can you copy?"

"Stand by," I say, pulling over to the side of the road. I park in front of an apartment complex and pull a blank work order out from under the seat. "Go ahead."

"One four seven two Ridgeview Lane," she says as I write. "Repeating. One four seven two Ridgeview Lane. Customer is a new install, three outlets, collect $42.50. Code red."

I groan. Code red -- I was right. Something happened and the guy wasn't hooked up when he was supposed to be, and now he's mad. And they're sending me into the lion's den. Just what I need today. "Ten-four," I say into the radio.

"Be careful, Lance," Britney says. "He's a real jerk."

I roll my eyes as I pull back onto the street. She's got to learn to watch what she says over that radio.

* * * *

I pull up in front of 1472 Ridgeview and cut off the truck. The house is one of those small, new houses that looks like all the others on the block. This is a young and upcoming section of town, close to the college, so I can already imagine the customer inside. A newly married couple, maybe, or a bunch of frat boys sharing a place, or some rich snobby kid who could afford the BMW Roadster glistening in the driveway. I sigh, gathering up my clipboard with the work order on top, and I slam the truck door behind me as I walk to the house. Despite the car parked in the drive, the house is too quiet, and I wonder if the prick is even home.

I gotta stop that. I'm getting to be as bad as the girls at the office who deal with the phone calls every day. Out here in the field, the customer is rarely as bad as the CSRs make him out to be.

I ring the doorbell. It echoes through the house, and I hear the yip yip yip of a tiny dog inside. I hate those toy dogs. For good measure I knock on the door, pounding it with my fist.

The door flies open and oh my God, I can't speak. I can't remember my name, who I work for, what I'm doing _here,_ standing on the porch looking at this man with golden curls and glaring eyes and nothing on but a tiny towel wrapped around his waist and I _swear_ I can see through it. If I close my eyes I can see him in front of me, naked, his body still damp from the shower I obviously interrupted -- _Don't go there, Lance._ That's my name. It's written on my shirt above my left breast pocket. I look down to check, and once I'm not looking at him, I can think again. My words tumble out in a rush. "I'm from Tele-Media, the cable company? To hook up your cable, mister ..." Britney didn't tell me his name.

"Timberlake," he says, a raw edge to his voice that makes my knees weak. He looks me over and the frown is replaced with a slow grin. "They sent you to hook up my cable? Shit." _What's wrong with that?_ I want to say, but he's looking at me with those intense eyes like indigo ink and I can't form the words. He looks past me at my truck, and the grin spreads into a sunny smile. If the girls in the office had known what he looked like when they talked to him on the phone, I'm sure he would've gotten anything his heart desired without having to talk to Bob. "Damn," he says, and that smile makes him look so impossibly young. "I didn't think you'd show up this quick."

I shrug and look at the work order, trying to ignore the dusky skin of his flat stomach, the muscles in his chest, the way tiny drops of water drip from his curls onto his shoulders and runnel down the planes of his body. But when I look at the clipboard in my hands I see his legs, the pale hair twisted and damp, and I wish there was some way I can untuck my shirt from my pants without seeming too obvious. Shit, I was getting hard just _standing_ here by him ... "Um, you want maybe I should ..." I sigh. _Fuck._ "I'm here to do the install," I say again.

"I know," he says, and his gaze runs down my body again, and damned if I can't _feel_ it lingering, making my hands clumsy, my palms sweaty, my throat dry. "Come on inside." He steps back and kicks a little pug dog out of my way.

I clear my throat and look at that tiny towel again. "Maybe you want to get dressed first," I say. "I'll hook everything up out here and ring the bell when I need to get in."

"Sure," he says, smiling at me. I feel his hot gaze as I head back to my truck, and I hope this job takes the rest of the afternoon because right now? I want to knock on the door again and see those sparkling eyes stare back at me. I want to hear that sweet voice, and damned if I don't want to see that toned body, with or without the towel. I almost hope he's not dressed when I have to go inside.

* * * *

I get the ladder off the back of the truck and lean it against the pole in front of his house. After jiggling it into a secure position, I climb up to the amp and change the fittings, trying not to think about Mr. Timberlake inside the house, probably now undressed, drying off with that thirsty towel, rubbing it roughly through those curls -- _Stop it,_ I admonish myself, unrolling the cable I have wrapped around my shoulder. _Okay, sure, he's a cute one. Fuck, he's probably the hottest guy you've ever seen in this dead-end town. But you're the cable man. You're here to hook up his TV and make sure he has pictures and then if you're lucky, he'll have no problems and will never call the office again._ Screwing one end of the cable onto the tap, I toss the rest of the coiled black wire down to the ground. I hope I have a long enough drop. When I walked from the house to my truck I counted my steps in an effort to take my mind off the young man inside, and for added measure I pulled out another ten feet of cable before I cut it. I don't want it to be too short. He'll think I'm an idiot if I have to do all this over again.

I turn to look over my shoulder, mentally measuring the distance from the pole to the side of the house, and I have a clear view into the second story window, where he's standing in that damn towel, digging through a pile of clothes. The curtains are open and I know he knows I'm here, he _has_ to know, but he turns his back to the window and the towel falls away, sweet Jesus, revealing a round, chiseled ass, perfectly shaped, and I grab onto the telephone pole because I'm going to fall. I think I've _already_ fallen, and I can't look away from the window as he tugs on a pair of white boxers followed by jeans, wiggling his hips to settle everything before he zips up. My mouth has to be open. My eyes have to be buggy and staring and wide. Suddenly my pants are way too tight and every move I made chafes me, sending sweet splinters of pleasure through me. What did I turn around for again? What the hell am I doing here?

 _The drop._ I look at the side of the house, and think that there's plenty of cable to run over there. If not, I'll climb up here again. Hell, again? I can't remember how to get down right now.

Inside the bedroom, he turns around and sees me. I clear my throat and he smiles at me sweetly as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. Somehow I manage to turn around and shimmy down the ladder without killing myself. I don't think of anything as I gather up the coiled cable and drag the ladder over to the side of the house. I don't think about that trim ass or those dark eyes or that seductive grin. Propping the ladder up on the side of the house, my legs shake as I climb it to tack the cable to the awning of the roof. I can't help but look in the bedroom again, but he's gone. Thank the Lord.

* * * *

A crackle of static bursts from the truck -- my radio. How is it that dispatch always manages to call me when I'm up the ladder? It's an uncanny ability, I swear it, and Britney has it down to a science. Ignoring the call, I descend the ladder and pull the cable taut against the siding. I fumble through my pockets looking for a ground block when the door opens and Mr. Timberlake steps out on the porch. "You know a girl named Jessica?" he asks.

 _Jessica. Who the hell_ \-- "Dispatch?" I ask. That's the only thing I can think of right now, and I'm proud I managed that. He's looking at me again and my mind is refusing to work right this second.

He looks at my hand in my pocket and I pull it out quickly, dumping a handful of change and paper clips and fittings onto his driveway because I don't want him to think I'm standing there feeling myself up. Shit, I'm so hard right now there's no way to hide it, and he looks even better in his jeans hanging low over his hips, his tight t-shirt tucked against that muscled chest. Jerking a thumb back at the house, he says, "You have a call. It's from the office. Jessica." As I come up onto the porch, he's looking at my crotch, and I want to die. It looks like I've got something more than my hand or fittings in my pocket. "She asked if her installer was here. Are you her installer?"

"I'm a service tech," I stammer. I want to add that I got handed this job because he was an ass on the phone, but I don't. I can imagine him being the pissy type but I think he'd look even cuter with an angry pout on his angelic face. I pick up my clipboard from the steps and follow him into the house. He points at the phone, the receiver lying on a small table in the hall. Picking it up, I say, "Lance here."

"Hey." It's Jessica, one of the other dispatchers. "You know that cable out you had on Atlantic this morning?"

"Yeah," I say, looking around the house to avoid his intense gaze. This place is a bachelor's pad, and I see two little pugs sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring at me balefully. One of them stands up and turns around, but Mr. Timberlake glares at it and says no in a stern voice, and the dog sits down again, whimpering.

Jessica sighs. "Well, she's home now, and she still has no pictures. When you're done there can you go back? Before Walnut?"

I roll my eyes. "I got good signal from the tap there. It's an inside problem. Customer equipment, or customer ed. This install will take a little longer --"

"If you get the chance," she says. "I can send Joe over there to help with the install, if you want. He's back from lunch."

I don't want Joe to come here. I don't want anyone else to be here but me and this boyish man who can't keep his eyes off of me, and did he just lick his lips? I'm pretty sure I saw it from the corner of my eye, that pink tongue flitting out from between those full lips ... "I'm fine," I stammer, flipping through the papers on my clipboard for the work order from this morning. "It's a pre-wire. I just ran the drop and now have to hook up the TVs. I'll head back to Atlantic. Tell her to stay there the rest of the afternoon, cause I ain't going back a third time."

"Okay," Jessica says, relieved. "Thanks."

As I hang up the phone, he looks over my shoulder at my clipboard. His closeness is like a shotgun behind me, and I almost imagine I can sense his hands hovering at my waist, his chest just inches from my back, his chin barely touching my shoulder. One hand comes up beside me and he points at the work order I scribbled his address onto earlier. "My name's Justin," he says. All I have written is _Timberlake._ "Justin Timberlake."

I get the idea he's waiting for me to write it down. I shift the clipboard onto my arm and my elbow brushes his stomach. "Sorry," I mutter, but he doesn't step back. I hope he's enjoying this. Right now I can't wait for the day to be over so I can climb into the shower and turn the cold water on full blast and relieve this tension pent up inside of me with a few hard, quick strokes of my right hand. I write _Justin_ down and look up at him, smiling slightly.

He stares at my mouth and then he licks his lips again. I knew I wasn't imagining things before. I curl my lower lip over my teeth and bite it painfully to remind myself that I'm working, this is on the clock, all I'm supposed to do is turn on the cable and leave ... "You ready to go upstairs yet?" he asks.

 _Oh God._ "Excuse me?" I ask, hugging the clipboard to my chest.

He grins. "Upstairs," he says, like I'm stupid. "Where the TVs are. In the bedrooms?"

 _Christ._ "Um ..." I glance into the living room, where a large 36" TV stares blankly back. I can see us reflected in its dark gray face, and he's standing closer than I thought. In the TV screen it looks as if he's right up against me, holding onto me tightly, and I only wish he was touching me. "I have to finish hooking it up outside first," I say, stepping away from him. He follows me to the door and out onto the porch. _Great._ I toss the clipboard in the grass and head back over to the side of the house.

* * * *

He follows me. I bend down and scoop up all the shit that fell out of my pocket and dammit but he's watching me like a suspicious clerk hovering over a street kid with sticky fingers. I find a ground block amid the coins and fittings and unhook my screwdriver from my belt. As I unscrew the old ground block from the house, Justin's hand touches my hip. "What's this?" he asks, his fingers curling around the cool metal of one of the tools I have attached to my belt.

"A terminator tool," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but my skin burns where he touched me.

He nods like he knows what I'm talking about. "What about this?" he asks, his fingers playing across my waist to grasp my tape measure. He looks at it and frowns. "Oh."

I turn towards the house a little more, trying to ignore him, his hand on my waist, his fingers still on my belt. His arm eases around me, his hand brushing my belt buckle before sliding up to rest on my stomach, which flutters beneath his touch. _Holy Mary, Mother of God_ \-- I don't even trust myself to speak anymore, and the screwdriver slips out of the screw, the tip skidding across the siding of the house, leaving a gray, paintless scar in its wake. The ground block clatters against the driveway and rolls away. I watch it stop against the side of his foot, his bare foot, and I bite my lip again. _We're working here, Lance,_ I remind myself as I manage to get the new ground block in place. _He's just a damn tease and he knows you're turned on, he can fucking see the bulge in your pants, and this is fun for him, so forget the fact that he's touching you. Forget the fire in his fingers or the strength in his arm or those damn curls and those damn eyes, and just finish this up so you can get the hell out of here._

When I get the new ground block screwed in and the cable attached, he lets his hand drift across my stomach as he backs away. "You coming inside now?" he asks, that smile sly on his lips. His full, red, pouty lips. _Stop it,_ I tell myself as I follow him back into the house. _Just stop it right this instant._

"Do you have a basement here?" I ask, hoping that I don't have to crawl up under the house. He shows me a staircase winding away into an unfinished concrete room, and in the rafters I see the cable snaked around the phone lines. The lines are still good, but I replace the three-way splitter, conscious of Justin's gaze on me. He's standing on the stairs watching me with those eyes ... I get the cable up into the living room and smile at him as I head back upstairs, but he blocks my path and doesn't move. He just smiles back. "Um," I say, pointing past him. He steps to one side. These steps are too narrow for two people. _Fuck._

I ease past him but my hip touches his crotch and the hardness there surprises me. I hurry up the stairs, so very aware that my pants pull tight over my ass with each step, and behind me I hear him make a small noise in his throat, something low and sexy that just makes me want to whimper. In the living room I wipe my sweaty brow with the back of my sleeve as I wait for him to come up the stairs. The dogs stare at me from the couch, and one of them growls at my presence. "Yeah, fuck you too," I mutter. I shift my belt, hoping to hide the erection in my pants, but it's too late now, isn't it?

Justin appears at the doorway, smiling at me. That damn smile. Shit. All he has to do is smile that way and I'd do anything he wanted. Anything at all. Cable free for a month? Sure, why not. Ten outlets? Hell, yeah. _Fuck, I'll even hook up the bathroom for you, you can watch TV when you take a bubble bath._

 _Don't go there, Lance. You do not want to picture him in the bathtub. Naked, soapy, slippery and wet ..._ I shake my head to clear the image and find the cable I pushed up into the room, a black wire poking from a small hole in the corner of the room. He watches as I run it behind a bookcase, behind the sofa and those damn dogs, around an end table, and to the back of the TV. I glance at the pictures on top of the TV -- some freaky guy in them, a white boy with white and black braids pulled on the top of his head, this is his boyfriend? Justin must see my expression because he says, "That's my roommate. Chris." I nod and bend down behind the TV, and I know his gaze is steady on my ass but what the hell am I supposed to do? As I screw the cable into the back of the set, he says dreamily, "Those are his stinky dogs. He's not my boy or anything, though. I ain't got someone like that yet." He emphasizes the word _yet._ I notice that.

I stand up and he's right there behind me, right there, and I bump into him, that hardness I felt earlier on my butt now, pressing eagerly, and before I can step away, his hands are on my arms, a gentle touch. His breath tickles the back of my neck, warm and feathery and soft. I close my eyes and swallow thickly, knowing I shouldn't but my mind is racing. _Please,_ I pray, _please oh please oh please oh please just please just --_

He steps back and I almost fall when his touch disappears. "Is there a remote to this thing?" I ask, surprised to hear my voice just a hushed whisper of its normally deep self. I don't turn around to look at him as he hands me the slim black controller. _Just program this TV and you can leave,_ I tell myself, but it's a lie. There are two more outlets to hook up. I am never going to get out of this place alive.

* * * *

Upstairs the bedrooms are pre-wired, so I don't have to do much more than unscrew the wall plates and dig inside the wall for the line. The first bedroom must belong to this Chris guy, because there are pictures of those dogs downstairs all over the desk and dresser, and naked centerfolds from Playboy stare at me from the walls. Justin doesn't even glance at the nude chicks -- he's too busy watching me, kneeling on the floor behind the small TV, my hand inside the wall like I'm a surgeon delivering a baby. I hope these walls are fished -- I can't find the cable, and I'd hate to have to explain to him that I don't do that. Shit, I don't do installs. I'm just a service tech. But I think that if he asks me nicely, and smiles at me like he does, I'd fish the whole damn house for him.

Fuck, he doesn't even have to ask nicely. Just smile that smile and look at me with those sparkling eyes that I'm half drunk off of already, and I'll do whatever he asks.

My fingers close over the thin cable and I sigh as I pull it through the wall. _Thank God._ I put a fitting on it and screw the wall plate back on, and then hook up the TV. "Can you turn it on for me?" I ask from behind the TV.

"What do you want me to turn on?" he asks, the hint of suggestion in his voice. _Sweet Jesus Christ._

"The TV," I say, clearing my throat. He's already turned me on enough for one day, and when I'm squatting like this on the floor, the crotch of my pants bites into my dick and it's all I can do to keep from shifting to rub the fabric against my erection. I glance up as Justin turns on the TV and it's his curls and his eyes and those lashes that are so long, so curved, and the dark hair on his arms, the diamond stud earrings he's wearing -- damn, everything below my belt is just throbbing now. "What's the picture look like?"

He's looking at me again, not the TV, when he says, "Everything looks great to me." His gaze strays to my crotch and I push myself up from the floor hurriedly. I step around the TV and check the picture, and he's so close I could just shift from one foot to the other and I'd touch him again. I fight the urge to do just that.

"There's another outlet?" I ask.

He nods. "My room," he says, leading the way. Of course. His room.

His room is dark -- this is the room I saw from outside, where he got dressed less than half an hour ago. I remember the cut of his butt cheeks and the way his hips swayed gracefully as he slipped into his jeans ... I shake my head, but the images don't fade away. When he turns around, he leans past me and closes the bedroom door, and my gaze falls to his waist. His jeans are unbuttoned -- when had that happened? Had they always been open? I don't remember anymore. I wipe my hands on my hips in the hopes of drying off my palms, but it doesn't work. He steps closer to me, and I take a quick look around the room. Where's the lightswitch? For that matter, where's the damn TV? "Um," I say, clearing my throat. "Where's your set?"

"Set of what?" he purrs, his voice soft in my ear. His hand touches the small of my back and I'm so sure that my shirt is going to burst into flames at any second.

"Your TV set," I mumble. "I don't see --"

"I don't have one yet," he says, his hand running up my back. His fingers curl through my hair, the touch hot against my hot neck, and his voice takes on a breathy, ethereal quality. "I want you to hook me up anyway. Can you do that?"

My throat is dry. I try to swallow but I've forgotten how. His fingers burn my neck where he touches me, and his sporty cologne is a heady scent that dulls my mind. "Yeah," I whisper, and his lips, so warm, so damp, so impossibly _soft,_ his lips close over my earlobe and his teeth, his hard teeth, they nibble at my skin, and any minute I'm going to come, I just know it.

His hands encircle my waist, and he presses against me, rubbing his crotch against my hip. He's as hard as I am, and I stumble back against the wall, not daring to speak. I'm at work, I remind myself, as his fingers nimbly unbutton the front of my shirt. His hands roam down my white undershirt, caressing my nipples. _I'm at work. This is a new install, I'm at work, I shouldn't be giving in like this_ \-- but there's no way I can say no. I couldn't form the word if I tried.

He unbuckles my belt, unzips my pants, and then he's touching me _there,_ his hand cupping my cock like he's weighing it, squeezing gently, testing me, watching me. I close my eyes and lean back against the wall, thrusting into his hand. My mouth is open, I'm panting slightly -- I reach out and grasp onto those thick arms, so warm beneath my hands, and then he's rubbing me through my underwear, his mouth covering mine, his tongue as sweet as nectar, filling my mouth. He's all heat and sex and hands and tongue and lips and I can't think anymore, I can't even breathe. I just wrap my arms around his neck, tangle my hands in those rough curls, pull him into me. I want to devour him. I want to make him mine, only mine.

His hand slips beneath the waistband of my underwear and then it's just his skin against mine, his soft hands on my hard cock, his fingers brushing through my hair, and he's got my balls in his palm, kneading them like bread, and I'm just about to melt in his hands. I moan into his mouth as his hand wraps around my thick shaft, stroking up and down the length, and I can't help but thrust into him. I want him so bad. Jesus, but I need him, he's like a drug, something I know I shouldn't do but I just can't help myself. He tastes so good, feels so real, I can't let him go. "Lance," he whispers against my neck. I love my name on his lips, falling from his tongue.

"I'm at work," I manage to sigh. "Justin, I can't ... I shouldn't --"

"Why not?" he breathes. I'm close, so close to coming, his hand working me like that, I'm going to explode and I've already fallen for him, there's nothing I can do now, nothing at all.

"I'm at work," I say again, but the words are meaningless. All that matters is him.

He pulls away, his mouth trailing kisses down my throat, my chest. His lips are cool and damp through the thin fabric of my undershirt, and his hands ease my dick out of my underwear. Before I can stop him, his lips close over the tip and it's all I can do not to buck into his mouth, but he's hot and wet and his tongue licks down me like I'm candy, his hands grab my ass and force me deeper into him, I'm rubbing against the roof of his mouth, against the length of his tongue, and my hands fist into his hair, his curls like woodchip shavings, blonde and coarse and smelling so sweet, oh so _sweet_ ... I'm so damn close I come within seconds, screaming his name, bucking my hips into him over and over again, and he sucks at me greedily, his mouth working me over until I go limp and soft in him. I slide down the wall, exhausted, spent. "Jesus," I whisper, my throat hoarse, my knees like jelly, my stomach fluttery. I'm thinking he's just going to walk away now, leave me sitting here on the floor of his bedroom -- his game is over, he's won. Dammit, but he won.

Instead he gathers me into his arms, his strong, strong arms, and his lips find mine. He tastes of my sticky sweet sourness, and I crawl over him greedily, hungry for more. My hands fumble at his waist when the phone rings, right above us on the wall. "Fuck," he mutters. He tugs at the cord and the receiver falls down to the floor. I shift in his embrace as he says, "Yeah?" His voice is ragged and a little breathless. I did that to him. Me.

Then he hands the phone to me. "Hello?" I gulp in air, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I think it does.

"Lance?" Britney says, concern lacing her words. "You okay? We've been trying to raise you on the radio."

 _Oh fuck._ "Yeah," I whisper, looking at Justin. His eyes are so blue, they're almost black in the dim room. His lips are red and swollen from my kisses, and I want to kiss him again. I want to kiss him forever, and I lick my lips at the thought. He grins and runs a hand over my erect nipples, arousing me again. I clear my throat and try again, my voice somewhat stronger. "Yeah, I'm still here. Ran into some trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Britney asks suspiciously. "I can send Joe that way -- he's in the neighborhood."

"No," I say quickly, shaking my head. "No, I've got it covered, Brit. One of the rooms upstairs wasn't wired. I got it taken care of." I push myself up out of Justin's arms. His hands trail along my arms, trying to hold me down, but I'm at work, I tell myself, I have to get back to work. I smile at him and trace the curve of his cheek with one finger. "I'm wrapping up now. Can you call my job on Atlantic and tell them I'm on my way? I should be there in fifteen, twenty minutes tops."

"Sure," she says, and as I reach up and replace the receiver, Justin tucks me back into my pants, my dick, my shirt, and zips me up. His hands are tender, gentle, and when he looks up at me, I see the lust still curled in the depths of his eyes.

"Justin," I whisper. God, I don't want to go. I hate myself when I stand.

He takes my offered hand and I pull him to his feet. Looking down at me, he smiles and asks, "Can you come back later?" Before I answer, he hurries to add, "After work. I want to see you again, Lance. Shit, I _have_ to see you again. Please."

What the fuck can I say?

* * * *

"Base to 23." The static burst drowns out Britney's voice, and I turn the radio down as I pull into the driveway at 542 Atlantic Avenue.

"Go ahead, Base," I say, the hint of a smile in my voice. The memory of Justin's hands burn on my body, and I still taste his sweet kisses on my lips. Already I'm thinking about where I'm going to take him tonight. He kissed me as I left, his hands on my back, his arms around me so tightly I was almost afraid to breathe and lose the moment. He called me his boy. I haven't heard that one in a long time. I can't wait to see him again. "Base?" I say again, cutting off the engine of my truck. "I'm at Atlantic. Heading in."

"How was Ridgeview?" Britney asks.

Now I can't wipe the grin from my face. "All bark and no bite," I say into the radio. "It wasn't as bad as I thought."

 _No, it wasn't,_ I think, smiling broadly. _And it's only going to get better._


End file.
